Yellow
by nothingbutgoneness
Summary: "...there is a whole other side to yellow, a dark, sickly side that makes stomachs curl, makes winds roar in protest, makes towns fall to their knees." T for language. One-shot.


**Yellow**

It's surprising how sinister the color yellow can be. Most people think of _yellow_ and they think sunshine, daisies, rainbows, smiles, summer. None of these associations are _wrong_, so to speak—more incomplete. Because there is a whole other side to yellow, a dark, sickly side that makes stomachs curl, makes winds roar in protest, makes towns fall to their knees.

On one hot, dry summer day in Lima, Ohio, that side of yellow permeated the very skies above.

Because this day was so warm and muggy, with only an occasional hot wind to alleviate the thick tension in the air, the majority of Lima to chose to hide away indoors under the comforting embrace of central air conditioning. In one particular household, three teenage boys splayed out across the living room floor, taking advantage of the lack of parental supervision by engaging in a rather vulgar video game marathon. All three were exceptionally adept at the war-themed game, a reality that was more surprising for some than for others. Cans of soda, aluminum wrappings, and remnants of celery and carrots littered the coffee table, but all eyes were trained on the large television screen mounted on the wall. Slaughtering terrorists was far more important than the state of the living room.

The boys' concentration did not apply to sound; each swore with abandon each time something particularly good or particularly bad happened within the game. It was because of this that they chose to wait until both adults in the house were at their respective workplaces before switching on the gaming console; despite the fact that the youngest among them was nearly seventeen, all three avoided swearing in front of authority figures.

"Oh, fuck you, Finn!" Kurt snarled, jabbing ferociously at the controller in his hands. His tongue poked out of the side of his mouth as he maneuvered his game character into a more favorable position.

Finn had long ago moved past his original shock over such vulgarities slipping past his normally chaste stepbrother's lips. As it turned out, Kurt was not the choirboy many made him out to be—at least not all the time. "Suck my dick, Hummel."

"I'd really rather he not," Blaine interjected dryly, from where he leaned against the front of the couch. "That mouth is all mine."

Not taking his eyes off the screen, Kurt reached a hand out to whack his boyfriend's shoulder. "Shut the hell up, both of you. I haven't played a game this bad since I figured out what the hell a call of duty _was_. I'm going to kick your collective ass, and you're going to worship me at my feet like the bitches you are."

Finn spared a withering glance at his brother before proceeding to switch weapons. "One of these days I'm going to record you, Kurt. I'm going to play that recording at the beginning of Glee Club at the start of school, and everyone's going to find out exactly what a badass you are." Kurt merely winked in response.

This exchange continued for another hour or so, ending only when Blaine had been so thoroughly stomped upon by the stepbrothers that he was forced to stop playing. He looked out the sliding glass doors that led to the backyard while Finn and Kurt finished the round. His brow furrowed when he noticed the state of the sky—_when did it get so _dark_?_

Blaine looked back to his boyfriend and friend just as the two completed what they had to. They powered down the technology and glanced about the room; they had made a serious mess. Kurt stood to start clearing things up, and as he did so, he happened to take a quick look out the back doors.

What he saw made him do a double-take.

The trees in the backyard whipped about in a wild dance, the wind beating upon them mercilessly. The tall grass shook so hard that small clumps were ripped from the ground and tore off to the sides. The normally glass-like surface of the small, manmade pool Kurt had built in the garden behind the house more closely resembled turbulent ocean waters. The previously peaceful world outside had been suddenly and inexplicably thrown into a chaotic frenzy.

But that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was the sight that made the inexplicable explicable. In the large, grassy field behind the thin line of trees that edged the back line of the Hudson-Hummel property, a tall, thin swirl of gray stretched from the low clouds to the earth.

Kurt dropped the plate he was holding as he stared in fear and shock. The dish clattered to the ground, but he didn't hear it. He didn't hear anything save the blood rushing in his ears and the now-deafening roar of wind as it beat upon the house.

Blaine rushed worriedly to his boyfriend, the older boy's facial expression sending a jolt of fear through him. He turned to see exactly what Kurt was gaping at, and he, too, froze.

_There is a fucking tornado right outside._

"RUN!" Blaine didn't know who shouted it. It couldn't have been Kurt; the boy was nearly catatonic. It was probably Finn. Hell, it could've been him. All he knew was that as soon as that word broke through the terrifying silence that had settled over the house, he grabbed Kurt's hand and yanked him forward. The two stumbled and tripped over every small thing in their path—of course, it didn't help that the radical shake of the building kept knocking things over, essentially creating an obstacle course for them to pick their way through.

Finn ran around the other side of the room, reaching the door to the basement and wrenching it open. The noise of the wind was simply thunderous, and it made verbal communication impossible. He waved frantically at the other boys, who seemed to be heading for the laundry room down the hall. They had just moved into this house, and Blaine hadn't had time to learn its floor plan completely; since he seemed to be the one leading Kurt, it made sense that he had totally forgotten about the much safer basement in his frenzy to lead his boyfriend out of the path of the tornado. Finn abandoned the door and tore after the other boys. When he caught up to them, he grabbed Kurt's shoulder and hauled him backward, ripping his hand from Blaine's.

Blaine noticed this and spun around in a panic. He saw Finn screaming something at Kurt, but it was unintelligible to his ears. Kurt had finally left his catatonic state, transitioning instead into full-on panic. Blaine watched as his breathing increased and his eyes blew wide in pure terror. Blaine took the older boy in his arms and squeezed him tightly, willing for anything, everything, something to change so he would never have to see that look on Kurt's face again.

Shuffling Kurt along, Blaine followed Finn back down the hallway and into the basement doorway. The tallest boy stepped back in order for the boyfriends to enter first, but just as he did so, the house rocked violently, sending all three sprawling. Finn fell backward onto the carpet. Blaine collapsed onto the door frame as Kurt was once more torn from his grasp. The pale boy tumbled down the stairs, coming to a halt at the bottom, unmoving.

"KURT!" Blaine screamed as he watched his boyfriend roll—but no sound came out. Forgetting entirely about Finn, the youngest boy raced down the short flight of stairs, throwing his body over his boyfriend's. "KURT! WAKE UP! KURT!"

A light slap to the face brought Kurt to his senses. He looked around groggily, quickly remembering the situation he—_they_—was in. He gazed up at the love of his life, eyes wide and skin even more pale than normal. Blaine grabbed his lithe body and pulled it into his own, sobbing either in relief or in fear—he honestly couldn't tell the difference.

After a moment, Kurt pushed him away slightly. "FINN," he mouthed, eyes darting about in search of his stepbrother. Blaine suddenly remembered that he had left the oldest boy on the ground floor. He pointed to the basement bathroom in the opposite corner of the space—_bathroom and pipes are your safest bet; there are always toilets and tubs left over after tornadoes_—and shoved Kurt in that general direction. He then bounded up the stairs two at a time to get to his friend.

The door to the basement had been ripped off its hinges, and it had flown on top of Finn's prostrate body. Reacting almost instantaneously, Blaine heaved the door to the side, adrenalin giving him a strength he never knew he could have. He hauled Finn to his feet and wrapped one of the taller boy's arms around his shoulder, sliding one of his own around his waist. Slowly—as slowly as could be considered safe—the two descended the staircase. When they reached the bottom, Blaine led Finn to the slightly cracked bathroom door, where a sliver of Kurt's face was visible in the opening. As the boys got closer, Kurt opened the door fully and made room for them to squeeze in.

The bathroom was tiny, with barely enough room for a toilet, a sink, _and_ a tub. It was clearly not made for three people, especially not when one was over six feet tall. Kurt shut the door when all three were inside, slightly quieting the roar of the wind above, and then looked at his brother and his boyfriend. The taller boy moved slowly, as though his entire torso had been crushed. His face was red with exertion, and his clothes were even more rumpled than usual. Blaine's normally gelled curls were wild and free, falling into his eyes in a way that Kurt would have found adorable, had this been any other situation. As it was, the disheveled bow tie and ripped polo sent a chill of panic down Kurt's spine. Blaine's light olive cheek was marred by a moderately deep gash that he presumed resulted from the fall into the door frame.

Kurt then recalled his own tumble down the stairs. He looked into the mirror above the sink and gasped inaudibly. A pool of blood had collected on his hairline. His porcelain skin was bright with splotches of red, and his signature fabulous outfit was nothing short of ruined. He turned back to Blaine, glasz eyes shining with a hundred emotions he couldn't begin to name.

Blaine saw this and grabbed his hand. He carefully maneuvered the two of them into the tub, sitting on the floor of it and wrapping his arms around his boyfriend. He lay back, keeping Kurt against his body, and willed himself to relax. It didn't work—_God, there's a fucking _tornado_ outside, how the hell am I supposed to relax?_—but he hoped that it was at least enough for Kurt to not slip into a panic attack. He vaguely registered Finn collapsing onto the toilet, his head falling into his hands. He pressed dozens, hundreds, thousands of kisses into Kurt's hair, pulling him tighter and tighter until they nearly occupied the same space.

Because the noise of the wind was lessening slightly, Blaine managed to move his lips next to Kurt's ear and whisper, "I love you so much." Kurt responded by burying his face into Blaine's shoulder.

None of the boys knew how long they waited there. None of them knew what they were waiting _for_, other than the all-too-real option of death. Eventually, though, after minutes, hours, days, the wind died down, and other noises became audible once more.

The creaking of the architecture of the building.

The wail of sirens.

The relentless ticking of a clock.

Kurt's stuttering breathing.

Their own pounding hearts.

Shouts.

"KURT! FINN! BLAINE! BOYS, WHERE ARE YOU?"

"KURT! WHERE AREY YOU BOYS? FINN!"

"ANYBODY IN HERE?"

The three boys looked at each other and nodded. Silently, they all stood, Finn gingerly, and Kurt with Blaine still wrapped around him. Then Finn reached a hand out and twisted the knob.

On the other side of the door, just coming down the stairs, were Burt, Carole, and two firemen. Carole screamed when she saw her son, and Burt shoved the firemen out of his way in his mad dash to get the boys. He captured all three in one massive hug, an impressive feat with Finn's size in the mix. Carole was not far behind; she grabbed each boy's face and showered it with kisses. The parents led the children back to the firemen, who helped Finn and Kurt up the stairs—or, they tried to. Finn was assisted just fine, but Blaine refused to let go of Kurt. Burt tried to cajole Blaine into handing his son over to the more experienced fireman, but the youngest boy shook his head stubbornly. He lead Kurt up to the ground floor one step at a time, making sure he didn't sway or topple back down. Eventually, all three boys made it to one of the dozen waiting ambulances outside.

Blaine couldn't believe how lucky they'd gotten. He had surveyed the Hudson-Hummel house as they passed through it, and the most damage he could find was knocked over furniture and a few blown windows. The Hopkins place next door was utterly demolished. Barely a beam lay atop another, and the rubble was widespread. Every other house on the street was more or less in the same condition as the Hudson-Hummels', and dozens of men, women, and children crowded in the street, all in various states of shock. Huddled close to Kurt on a stretcher, a blanket spread across their shoulders, Blaine looked up. The sickening yellow sky from before the nightmare was gone. In its place stretched a perfect blue, only an occasional cotton ball cloud to mar it smooth, oceanic glow. It was as if Mother Nature was in complete denial about the temper tantrum she'd thrown just an hour before.

Paramedics came around to check on them. They'd patched up Kurt's head wound, assuring him that it was very minor, and even though they recommended a doctor's visit, they were sure that there would be absolutely no lasting damage. Blaine's gash was treated, and both boys were given water for the shock. A few yards away, lying on a stretcher of his own, Finn was keeping very still, not wanting to jostle the wrap that was holding his broken rib in place. Burt and Carole, after making one hundred percent sure at least two dozen times that all three boys were safe and okay, moved around the street, checking on neighbors, helping move obstacles out of people's ways, and, in Carole the nurse's case, assisting the paramedics in their treatment of the injured.

When Blaine pulled him down so that they were lying together on the stretcher, Kurt went easily, melting into Blaine's embrace. The whole day seemed like a dream. It was far too surreal to actually have occurred in real life. On a conscious, rational level, he realized that sometime soon reality would set in and he'd probably flip his shit, but for the moment, everything was a haze of denial, and it didn't really hurt that badly. His boyfriend, his beautiful, amazing, caring boyfriend, was safe, right here, right tangibly here, and his brother was easily visible just a short distance away. His parents, his father and mother, came back often enough to reassure Kurt of their existence. He snuggled closer into Blaine's side, just taking in the moment.

Things were not perfect. They were far from it. Life as they knew it was gone. The safe, naive reality they enjoyed before had been obliterated.

But they would rebuild. They would fix their house and their ideas and their _lives_. They would move on, grow up, and be better than they were before. Life as they knew it was gone, but a new life had taken hold, and they were going to be okay.

As long as they had each other, one day, everything would be a happy yellow again.

* * *

><p>So, really, what the fuck is wrong with me? I still can't believe I wrote this. I must be really depressed right now. I did donate blood today, so maybe it's the lack of one of my humors that's making me such a downer.<p>

This is just a one-shot that I've actually had in mind since the summer. I was originally going to make it a chapter of _A Very Klaine Summer_, but I already had a chapter about storms, and I knew it was going to be really, really long. I would like to stress here that this is a _one-shot_, so please, _please, _do not put this story on Story Alert. It is complete. Done. Over. Finished. It really bothers me when I mark something as complete and people put it on Story Alert anyway.

/rant.

By the way, I have never experienced a tornado before, so if you have and you find this extremely unrealistic...sorry. Everything I wrote about came from what I remember from _Double Dutch_ and from what I imagine having a giant-ass wind cone come bearing down on you would be like.

Well, I am hella tired now, so Imma go collapse and not answer any of the 401873123621087321630 messages in my inbox. Sorry if one (or six) of them is you.

Peace out, home skillets.

TUMBLR IS klainebowsandquirrelmort.


End file.
